


Jago Lees-Hogg and the True Believer

by mevennen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevennen/pseuds/mevennen
Summary: Like the first of these fanfics, this is basically about what it might be like if the Bond-verse was crossed with the actual political establishment of the UK. Things are moving so fast here that this story is already a bit out of date, since I started it at the beginning of the summer. I have, needless to say, played fast and loose with actual recent British history. I see it as some rather wacky mixed timeline.





	Jago Lees-Hogg and the True Believer

**3rd November**

** **** **

** **** **

You are worried about your boss. This isn’t a new phenomenon. You’re frequently worried about him. Has he really given up smoking? He says he has but you sometimes stand close to him in the lift and you’re not sure that this is true. Is he drinking too heavily? (There’s no actual evidence of this, by the way: you just worry. You did have a conversation with him once about it and he said that an alcoholic was someone who drank more than his doctor). Is he lonely? Absolute pass on this one despite covert but extensive interrogation of your mate in the Personnel Department, who has uncovered only a rather old divorce. Very frustrating. How could you, a trained agent, be unable to find this out? Morally, you balk at stalking him (he’d know, anyway). 

Mallory keeps his domestic cards professionally close to his chest, refers to his household as ‘we’ (the Royal ‘we’?) but does he actually live with someone or not? You occasionally see him on his mobile and he is smiling more than he normally does when he’s on the phone. And sometimes he disappears from the office dead on time at 5, looking at his Longines watch and seemingly in a hurry. And he often brings in sandwiches that are obviously home-made and look nice, but you do not think the Lt Col is a dab hand in the kitchen, somehow. In fact, he once told you that he that he was hopeless at cooking, ‘apart from roasting squirrels.’ You’re not sure if this might be a Hereford-style joke. Does he have a faith of any kind, a spiritual anchor to his life? Does he go to church or practice meditation? The ornaments in his office mainly seem to relate to horses and that doesn’t really count, though with the upper classes, one never knows. 

But this is all flimsy stuff for serious speculation.

You do know that he has two brothers and has had at least one cat.

However, despite these secrets, or perhaps they are merely reticences, you obviously spend a great deal of time with your boss and these professional relationships can almost be a sort of marriage, not necessarily with any mutual physical attraction (Mallory is not really your cup of tea and although he is avuncular towards you on occasion, he is also impersonal enough for you to suspect that you are not really his, either). It’s not all about sex, though, is it?

Mind you, tell that to Bond. 

Anyway, you are worried about M. You know he has had something on his mind lately. The frown lines, already firmly etched, have been deepening. You knock gently on the door of his office and take in the sheaf of papers that need to be signed and there he is with his head in his hands. He doesn’t look up.

“Are you – all right, Sir?”

“Godallbloodymighty, Moneypenny,” is all that M says.

“Sir?”

Mallory finally takes his palms away from his forehead and sits up straight.

“Are you OK?” you falter.

“No, I am not,” says your superior, with a darkling glare. “I have to go to Bath.”

**M’s diary, 3rd November**

** **** **

** **** **

Christ, I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen. And now it has and it’s completely blindsided me. It’s a classic hospital pass: you think you’ve got your eye on the ball and suddenly you glance over your shoulder and there’s a 28 stone Samoan charging down the rugby pitch towards you at a speed that may prove fatal. 

Kuznetsov wrote me a letter last week – one on actual paper with a pen, delivered by the Royal Mail – in which he said that he thought something was brewing with his former paymasters. Do you want us to move you, I asked by return of post, to an address which was not that of the safe house in which we had put Kuznetsov after his defection. It was in Bath, yes, but not the same street or even the same neighbourhood. 

I got back a reply which said in effect, _no don’t worry, I’m probably just being paranoid. ___

_ __ _

_ __ _

It was at this point that I naturally started to become seriously concerned. Defectors from the GRU are not prone to whimsies and fancies; they’re not teenage girls at a Boyzone concert, for God’s sake. Kuznetsov is a hard man who has done some desperate things and he’s not inclined to be paranoid for the sake of it. 

Then, at lunchtime today, I got a call from the Chief Constable of Somerset and Avon to say that Kuznetsov and a visiting niece had been found slumped on a bench near Pulteney Bridge, practically foaming at the mouth. Assuming they were drunk or drugged, a nearby Samaritan called an ambulance and they were rushed into hospital, who hadn’t the faintest idea what was wrong with them but who had the good sense, in due course, to contact someone who did, namely Porton Down, where one of the Bath medics had a former colleague.

It’s a nerve agent and a nasty one (are there any nice ones? Not really). 

So we seem to have dropped the ball. I should have got Kuznetsov out of there at the first sniff of trouble, because I also have a theory that he may have been liaising with the mafiya as well as us and although nation states actually do have a sort of gentleman’s agreement, which actually does sort of work, in not targeting defectors too obviously, the criminal sector doesn’t have this kind of diffidence. And the Russian state itself has been becoming a lot more bearish lately, too. 

I haven’t been to Bath since I was in my teens. My father took us once to visit the Roman remains and very interesting they were, too. 

Somehow, I think the sightseeing possibilities on this trip may be limited.

**4th November******

** **** **

** **** **

Mallory put his foot down once beyond the London orbital. Q sat quietly in the passenger seat of the black XJ, staring out of the window and apparently lost in his own thoughts. Mallory knew better than to disturb him. They sped along the M4, punching through the autumn drizzle and even though it was early in the morning, the Jaguar’s lights were on. At last, Q said,

“Nasty day, Sir.”

“Foul.”

“How long will it take to get to Bath?”

“Please do not ask if ‘we are nearly there yet,’ Q. Hour and a bit unless there’s a hitch, at the speed I’m driving.”

“Ah.”

At this point, Mallory’s phone chimed.

“Mallory.”

“It’s your brother. Roderick.”

“Yes, I do remember your name, old chap.”

“Well, you have two of us,” the Duke of Mortlake said. “Where are you?”

“Belting down the M4 in a westerly direction.”

“That’s a shame. I was going to take you to lunch.”

“That would have been lovely but I am conscious, Roderick, that you only ever take me to lunch unscheduled if you have something awful to tell me and think it might sound better in person.”

“Funnily enough…”

“What is it this time? Young Edward decanted into the boarding school boating lake again? Fiona threatening divorce? Oh wait, that wouldn’t be awful.”

The Duke ignored this slight against his wife and said, “It’s a political matter. Are you in a position to talk freely?”

Mallory looked at Q, who was staring studiously out of the window, and said, “Yes. Entirely.”

“Well, a vote on Brexit has been stalled yet again, mainly by the instigation of the Uninternationalist Committee, as they style themselves. You remember old Marshall had to step down last week to spend more time with his family?”

“Yes. Racing debts and a rent boy, if I recall correctly.”

“That’s the one. The committee has now got as far as electing its new leader and that would be Jago Lees-Hogg.”

“Christ!”

“No, he just thinks he is. I thought you ought to know, given that he definitely has his eyes on the prize in terms of the upcoming leadership race and of course, that means PM.” 

“Oddly, I’m heading in the direction of his constituency as we speak. On other business, though.”

“I don’t think he’s in Westminster at the moment. Keep an eye out. He’s no friend to the security services. Or indeed to anyone except himself. After that debacle with Horace, I don’t think we can be too careful, although thank God Ronson’s not your boss any more. How are you getting on with Bunt, by the way?”

“It’s a lot calmer, I must say. He does actually seem to understand some of the more complicated things I tell him. Took me a while to get used to it. Anyway, thanks, Roderick. Catch up next week, eh? Go out for a drink or dinner in Rules or something.”

“It will be a pleasure,” the Duke said and rang off. 

After a moment, Q said, “Is Lees-Hogg the one whom Private Eye described as a ‘haunted Victorian pencil’?”

“Yes. Also known as the MP for the late nineteenth century. Horace Ronson calls him ‘old pin striped jim jams.’ He’s supposed to have three piece nightwear.”

Q tried, but failed, to suppress a smirk. “Doesn’t he also have loads of kids?”

“Yes, he’s a devout Catholic so birth control is presumably out of the question. He has nine, all with Saxon names. Ronenberga. Forthwith. Aelfric. Rickmansworth. Stuff like that.”

“Mrs Lees-Hogg must have her work cut out.”

“They have a nanny, Q, in the manner of the upper classes, which Lees-Hogg actually isn’t. His father was a steel magnate. Self made, nouveau riche. However, as I was saying, young Jago did have a nanny and in fact took her on his campaign trail during the last election. It might be the same one looking after his own children although I should think she’d be about a hundred and forty by now. Moneypenny says it’s all a bit Daphne du Maurier.”

“I haven’t actually read any du Maurier but I think I know what she means.” A diffident pause. “Did you have a nanny, Sir?”

Mallory looked at him for a second. It was sometimes very hard to tell with Q, he reflected, whether the young man was indulging in what in the army was known as ‘dumb insolence’ or actually asking a sincere question in a genuine search for information. He decided to play this one with a straight bat. 

“I did not, in fact, have a nanny, Q. Roderick and I were packed off to boarding school when we were seven, as is normal, and in the holidays we, and later my younger brother Richard, were parked with my grandparents when my father was stationed abroad. Although I did spent a year being educated in Damascus. But no, Mary Poppins was not foisted upon us.”

“Oh my God!” Q exclaimed. Mallory diverted his attention from the road to his quartermaster in some surprise – surely his rather typically aristocratic upbringing wasn’t worthy of that much reaction? – and then saw the actual reason for Q’s remark. Namely a stunning redhead with one hand on the wheel of a Clio and the other on the trigger of a Glock. 

Mallory slammed his foot on the accelerator and the big car shot forwards.

There was a ricocheting bang from the rear of the Jaguar.

“If she’s scratched my paintwork, I’m going to be really quite miffed,” Mallory said. “I’ve had this old girl for a long time. Open the glove compartment.”

Q did as he was told. 

“Now pass me that gun.”

Q did so. Mallory slowed down and the Clio drew alongside. The redhead fired and Q ducked reflexively, but the bullet pinged from the glass.

“Open the window, Q!”

Mallory slewed the car towards the central reservation to give himself some space, leaned right across his quartermaster, took brief aim and fired left-handed. There was the gratifying sound of a front tyre being shot out at 80 mph and the girl fought to keep the little car under control. The last sight Mallory had of her in the rearview mirror was the car skidding to a halt on the hard shoulder to the sound of outraged honking. 

“Good job it’s quiet on the motorway today,” Mallory remarked. “Wind the window up, Q – I don’t want rain on these seats.” 

“I got her number plate, Sir. I’ve sent it in to the local police – I assumed you wouldn’t want to waste time by arresting her yourself.”

“Bloody impertinence!”

“Sir?”

“A _Clio_, for Christ’s sake. I’ve no intention of being assassinated by someone driving a _French car_.” ____

_ _ __ _ _

_ _ __ _ _

“Most aggravating, Sir,” said Q, reminding Mallory of Jeeves. Perhaps if he ever decided to leave the intelligence services, the quartermaster might want a job as a butler? Mallory thought it best to keep this notion to himself.

“I know that girl. I’ve seen her before. It’ll come to me in a bit. Oh look. There’s Swindon.” 

It was as they were walking into the next services, en route to the gents’, that Mallory said,

“Got it!”

“Sir?”

“Samara Petrovna Sokolova. You may not remember this, Q, because I think it was when you were on that course at Quantico at the time, but she was one of the agents we exchanged for Kuznetsov. Brunette, then. Tried to sit on my lap during an interrogation.”

“That must have been – nice for you, Sir.”

“Not really. Perhaps in another context with a completely different person. The woman’s a psychopath. Daughter of a GRU Colonel who narrowly avoided jail – even in the FSU – after committing atrocities in Chechnya. Samara takes after dear old dad.”

“What did you do, Sir? When she tried to sit on your lap?”

“I stood up,” said Mallory. 

She had probably never forgiven him, either. Mallory was relatively, if not unnaturally, tall and the ground had been a long way down. 

“It’s not so much that she’s here,” he went on, “As that she’s drawing attention to herself after a major nerve agent incident involving an agent for whom she was exchanged – so she obviously shouldn’t even be in this country - by firing at my car.”

“Reckless? Poor sense of consequences?”

“Or simply cheek? And if so, why?”

**4th November, M’s Diary (decoded)******

** **** **

** **** **

Reached Bath around lunchtime but neither Q nor I actually had any lunch due to the ongoing emergency. The area around Pulteney Bridge has been cordoned off. Kuznetsov and his unfortunate niece are both on ventilators, as is a police constable who investigated the safe house (also cordoned). I have spoken extensively to the boffins at PD and the chief constable, to the NHS trust and the mayor of Bath. No-one is happy, least of all me. The only person to whom I have not spoken is the resident MP, one Jago Lees-Hogg, but he has left me a message saying that he is coming to the hotel this evening: he is apparently in Birmingham but on his way back.

Q and I just had dinner: there’s an excellent restaurant directly opposite the hotel which is very modern old school, if you know what I mean, specializes in offal and things like bone marrow. I liked this but Q is a vegetarian and they had to make him an omelette. Must be difficult, being a vegetarian. At least he’s not vegan otherwise I suppose we’d have to go out and pick him some dandelions or something. Felt a bit sorry for him as it was my choice of eatery, so told him we’ll dine in the hotel tomorrow: a rather wider menu, from the look of it. 

Just had a text to say that Lees-Hogg is downstairs. Surprised he uses a mobile phone – would have expected carrier pigeon or a ragged urchin with a note in some sealing wax. 

**4th November, p.m.******

** **** **

** **** **

If there was one thing that irritated Mallory – and indeed, there were many things which did – it was languid, floppy men who reminded him of noodles. It wasn’t that he had a problem with people being gay: that was a different thing entirely. And it would hardly apply in the case of that prodigious sire of numerous offspring, Lees-Hogg. The MP had a frail, moist handshake, accompanied by a moue of distaste at, presumably, having to touch a mere civil servant. Mallory summoned his nastiest smile and applied a slightly harder grip than usual: not enough to hurt the man, as he didn’t want to annoy him more than he had to, but there was evidently a pissing contest underway and Mallory fully intended to win it. Lees-Hogg was slightly taller than Mallory, but only slightly, plus stooping and not as fit. This helped. 

“Dreadful thing, of course, Mallory. Not exactly reassuring for the general public. Can’t quite see how this was allowed to slip through the net. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten me?” He stared at Mallory coldly.

“Yes, certainly. It came out of left field. Totally unexpected. It’s actually unusual for a defector to be targeted on the territory of his adopted nation, otherwise there’s a risk we’d all be doing it. Tit for tat and all that.”

Lees-Hogg did not appear impressed.

“Rather lax, though,” he murmured. 

“On the part of whom?”

“Well, your department, obviously. How many defectors do you have running about the country at the moment, whom we might see mowed down in the public street?”

“I’m afraid,” said Mallory, shark-like, “That that’s classified information.” 

The meeting did not last long. 

**4th November, p.m, M’s Diary (decoded)******

** **** **

** **** **

L-H took his attenuated form off in the direction of the nursery, no doubt, and left Q and myself to totter into the bar, where I bought Q a cup of tea and myself a Scotch the size of the Isle of Mull. L-H is not pleased and frankly I can’t really blame him: however ghastly the man might be, this outrage did take place on his patch and I am ultimately responsible as the chief of the Secret Intelligence Services. I have however earned some Brownie points with the PM in actually putting boots on the ground down here: this has been received well, seen as pro-active and brave etc. 

We shall see what the morning brings. I am reminded that it is Bonfire Night tomorrow. 

**5th November******

** **** **

** **** **

Next morning, Mallory and Q finished breakfast before embarking upon the day’s appointments. Had it not been for the circumstances, Mallory would have enjoyed Bath: it had many attributes of which he approved. Civilised, the home of various antiquities, classy, ornamental and solid. Britain at its best. Shame its thriving tourist trade was about to be hammered by an international nerve weapon incident. Karma for repeatedly voting for Lees-Hogg? Mallory did not feel qualified to say. 

It was still very wet throughout the morning, but at lunchtime Mallory managed to glance out of the window of the local police HQ and saw that it was brightening up. Nice for anyone celebrating Bonfire Night: the previous evening had been punctuated by a few preliminary bangs and crashes, alarming for cats, dogs, and jittery secret agents who had recently been fired upon. Mallory had got the police to take a good look at the traffic cameras and they had traced the Clio so far, but no further. Samara had come onto the M4 at Newbury and, disdaining the services of the AA for obvious reasons, had apparently changed the tyre herself before coming off at Swindon. The last sighting of the car was of the Clio turning down a country road onto the Wiltshire Downs. Mallory thought Sokolova would probably jettison it somewhere once out of view of the CCTV. Annoying. He should have pulled round and arrested her at the time, but Q had been right: the nerve agent case was more important and if you arrested everyone who took pot shots at the secret service, you’d be filling out paperwork till the end of time. Who knew the case was related? Shame he hadn’t recognized Sokolova sooner, though. 

Mallory felt as though he had a handful of chess pieces and no clear game: frustrating. The nerve agent case clearly still had to take priority but the PM was, not unnaturally, asking for a COBRA meeting so Mallory had undertaken some early work on this via Skype and was due back in town the following day. Meanwhile, his November 5th was spent in dealing with forensics, the police, some people from Five, the press and various pontificating members of Parliament. It was with relief that he eventually sank into a banquette opposite his quartermaster, rubbing his eyes. The hotel restaurant was a reward after a long tough day. The tall Georgian windows looked out onto a terrace, which led down into one of Bath’s pleasant parks. 

“Thanks for today, Q. I don’t think we’d have made the strides that we did if it hadn’t been for you.”

“That’s very kind, Sir, but probably only slightly accurate. At least we have some certainty on the origins of the weapon.”

The nerve agent possessed a very distinctive chemical signature, apparently, and was easily traceable to one Siberian lab.

“The PM wants a statement made as soon as possible if we really are sure.”

“I think we are. Sir, you ought to have something to eat before the kitchen closes.”

“Thank you, Q, I am aware of that. It is definitely Scotch o’clock although they do have a good range of gins, I notice. And it is a steak and chips night, I think. What would you like?”

“They have a salad with goji berries, Sir, which sounds tempting.”

How could anyone contemplate salad at this time of the year? And what in the world were goji berries? No, don’t ask or it’ll be a half hour lecture on nutrition. Interesting, but not welcome when your taste buds are hellbent on salt and booze and fat. 

“Order whatever you want. We’re not squandering tax payers’ money; it isn’t the Ritz.”

Q and Mallory had just finished their respective dinners when there was an almighty blast from the direction of the park and a shower of red and golden stars blossomed above the dark trees.

“What – oh, of course,” said Q. “It’s the Fifth.”

“Yes, remember remember, and all that. I used to love Bonfire Night when I was a kid. Still do, actually. Explosions, loud noises, raging flames and a baked potato and sausages if you played your cards right. Surprised I didn’t go into bomb disposal. Although I have done a bit of that, obviously.”

“I always found it rather excessive,” said Q, looking pained. “Bonfire Night, I mean, not bomb disposal. And animals hate it.” 

“Yes, completely agree with you there: our dogs always kicked up a racket. And there was one year when my little brother managed to blow up the gamekeeper’s hut…that was a bit unfortunate. Hell of a row. He always says it was worth the resultant bollocking, though.” 

They watched the bursts of light for a few minutes; Q frowning, Mallory with pleasure. 

“Also,” Q said, still in male complaining mode, which Mallory fully understood, “I remember when I was a kid, they had these events earlier on Bonfire Night so that you could have a proper dinner and a decent night’s sleep afterwards. This is very late, isn’t it – it’s nearly nine o’clock. I mean, they were ages with our supper – the dining room’s deserted. Any children at that display must be up way past their bedtimes and it’s a school night, too.”

Mallory considered this. 

“Q, you’re right!” Their eyes locked. Simultaneously, they threw themselves off the banquette and rolled, scrambling beneath a table just as the big glass windows blew in. 

**November 6th (just), M’s Diary (decoded)******

** **** **

** **** **

I do find it tiresome to have to pick glass out of my hair, what’s left of it. Q and I are now ensconced in a Travelodge, since there’s not much left of the back of the Minerva Hotel either. No casualties, thank God, although there were some rather startled guests in the lobby. I have made the decision to go back to London first thing and not mid-morning as originally planned, since we’re apparently sitting ducks here and I don’t want to cause more grief to the good people of Aquae Sulis. Since this has all played out on British territory, Five and the police have more or less taken over the investigation and I have faith in both. I’ve let James Widdenshawe at Five have all the info about the incident on the motorway as I can’t believe it’s not related. 

The PM’s been on the phone and so has Bunt, both of them having had an earful from Lees-Hogg. The man is set to make trouble and has put in a formal complaint about the SIS, damage to civic infrastructure and endangering civilians. There’s a question to be raised in the House tomorrow, apparently. This is deeply tedious. I possibly won’t be fired but that’s what Lees-Hogg is calling for, apparently, and the PM might just listen…

**November 6th******

** **** **

** **** **

Mallory put down his diary when there was a quiet knock on the door. He glanced at the clock. Two thirty a.m. He opened the door to find Q standing in the corridor, looking furtive.

“What is it, Q?”

“Sir, she’s here.”

“Who?” Mallory hissed. “Do you mean Sokolova?”

“Yes. I just saw her walking across the car park.”

“Shit. Right. Come on.”

They hurried past reception and out of a back door, which Mallory knew to lead into the car park. In the lights at the edge of the Travelodge, Sokolova’s bright hair was unmistakable. Keeping the red flag flying, he thought. Sidling through the shadows, Mallory and Q made for the Jaguar, giving it a quick once over in case the GRU agent had endowed it with any optional extras. But nothing showed up on Q’s phone as he scanned the vehicle and they slipped inside. Sokolova, now driving a sporty little MG, was already pulling out onto the ringroad. 

“She’s heading back into town.”

“I think we have to consider, Sir, that this must be a trap. She seems to have a very flamboyant MO.”

“Absolutely. But I don’t think we have a lot of choice. Anyway, I’m tired of being a target. Boring. Can you get a fix on the car?”

Q nodded. “A piece of cake, Sir, now that I’ve got it in my sights.”

Sokolova headed towards the station, then up into central Bath. Mallory watched the little red dot which represented the MG crawling up the dashboard console like a bug on a window pane. Then it stopped.

“She’s parking in the street, Sir.”

“All right. Let’s dump the Jag round the corner. Ah. Q, this is the baths!”

“So it is, Sir!” The quartermaster peered through the drizzle at a handsome arch and a line of statues along a parapet. “The Roman Emperors, I understand. What on Earth is Sokolova doing here?”

“Perhaps she has an interest in Classical culture.”

“At a quarter to three in the morning?”

They dodged along the wall. Mallory could hear the Russian agent’s heels tapping on the pavement. Then there was the sound of a door opening and closing. Mallory and Q waited for a moment, then followed down a flight of steps and through the door.

Immediately, Mallory was met with a soft punch of humid warmth. He blinked, realizing that they must be in the lower part of the building, close to the hot springs that were the reason for the baths’ existence. Just as they had in Roman times, the springs were still pumping hot water up into the cisterns, though the old hypocaust was long gone. An orange glow betrayed the presence of modern lights, around the big central pool. Mallory could see the reflections glinting on the rain-hammered water. 

Quite close by, a voice said,

_“Где девушка?”___

_ __ _

_ __ _

_“Я не знаю. Не далеко от.”___

_ __ _

_ __ _

_“Я слышу ее.”___

_ __ _

_ __ _

So could Mallory. The girl was making no effort to hide the sound of her passage across the stone floor of the baths and he was able to hear her quite easily. That begged the question of who these two clowns were, though. He glanced at Q. His quartermaster replied with a jerk of his head and Mallory slipped across to join him behind a pillar. The two Russians were crouched not far away, behind a massive block of stone. Typical GRU, to Mallory’s practiced eye: black clad, cold-faced, dead-eyed. He liked the Russian people, as a rule: spiritual, well-educated, animal loving. Just not their security forces. But then, people probably said the same about the Brits. 

Never look too hard in the mirror…

He gestured to Q, hoping that the quartermaster would understand. The young man was not a fully trained agent – not his skill set - but he was quick on the uptake. Q gave a brief nod and melted into the darkness. 

_“Осторожный. Она опасна.”___

_ __ _

_ __ _

_“прекратить суетиться. Она просто женщина.”___

_ __ _

_ __ _

In the darkness, Mallory gave a grim grin. “Just a woman” had been the last thing on the lips and minds of several of Britain’s enemies in the past. There was a reason he employed so many female spies. But Sokolova was certainly reckless…unless, of course, she wanted to be caught. Flamboyant, Q had said, and Mallory thought he was right. But now Boris 1 and 2, as Mallory had just re-christened them, were taking off in pursuit. Making sure the door was closed behind him and any escape route for the Russians was sealed off, he followed.

The air in the baths smelled strange, rather like blood. Chalybeate, Mallory thought, was the word: the springs were iron bearing. He really ought to take a proper trip here, as a visitor. Then his thoughts veered away from the architecture, for there was a sound – a tiny sigh. He’d heard that before, many times. Mallory froze and then, very cautiously, looked around a column in time to see Boris 1’s lifeless corpse sliding into the main pool. Mallory winced. The MP for the late nineteenth century wouldn’t like that if it was still floating there in the morning: not a nice sight to greet the first party of schoolkids to come through the doors. Redundancy seemed to be drawing closer and closer: still, it had been a great job while it lasted. He could see Boris 2 standing at the far end of the chamber, back turned, peering through an open door. Time to be pro-active. Mallory drew his gun from his shoulder holster and stepped out. There was a loud puff and Boris 2 crumpled to the floor. 

Odd, thought Mallory, since he hadn’t actually pulled the trigger.

“Don’t move, Lieutenant Colonel.” Samara Sokolova was behind him: how had she managed that? Doubled back in some way? He thought of the hypocaust. Into his ear she said, “Remember the interrogation? I don’t like being humiliated.”

“Why did you kill your comrade?” Mallory asked, very still. 

She laughed. “He’s no comrade of mine. The President himself sent me to get rid of them now they’ve done their work with your double agent and his niece, especially given how much they’ve ballsed it up. Kuznetsov was supposed to die.”

Mallory was silent. She laughed again.

“So I have a hospital appointment tonight as well as a visit to the baths. The assassination is a message to your government, by the way - ‘fuck you. We can do what we like in this country.’ We’ve already engineered your departure from the EU: this is just icing on a cake. I’m only telling you this, Lieutenant Colonel, because you’re about to die as well. Thought I might as well kill several birds with one stone while I was in the country. I might have failed with that bomb but never mind - I’m going to make it look like that idiot shot you.”

He heard the trigger cock and the creak of stone. There was a rush of air. Mallory whipped round to see Sokolova flattened messily beneath one of the statues that had stood on the parapet. Q stood above them and Mallory thought that even in the lamplight his quartermaster was rather pale. 

“Suetonius Paulinus, I believe,” Q said.

“What?”

“The statue. Conqueror of Queen Boudicca. Rather appropriate, really.”

“I can’t wait to hear what pin striped jim jams has to say about this.”

“Surely he had a classical education at Eton?”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Q. I expect he spent most of his efforts on finance and RE.” 

**Breakfast time, November 6th. **

** **** **

** **** **

They were at the toast and marmalade stage at the Travelodge’s adjacent restaurant when a thin shadow fell across the table and Mallory looked up to see the MP himself looming over them. 

“Mallory, apologies for interrupting you in the middle of your breakfast but I just wanted to say that I may have been somewhat hasty in my remarks about your department previously, and in calling for you to be sacked. Sorry about that.” His tone was mild and conciliatory. “I’ve apologized to the PM and the Foreign Secretary and withdrawn my complaint.” 

Mallory was so startled that he nearly overturned the teapot.

“That’s quite all right, Lees-Hogg. Given the chaos at Bath’s premier tourist attraction last night… Very worrying set of circumstances.”

“You see, I was talking to Hank Rogers of the US state department at a dinner last night and he reminded me that you are - well, that you are, like me, a devout Christian.”

“Um!” said Mallory. “He told you that, did he?”

“Yes, he’s a close friend of Mark Spence. And obviously, those of us of faith need to stick together in this godless political climate.”

“Oh, I quite see that.” 

“I do realize,” the politician said, rather diffidently, as if treading on sacred and personal ground, “that you are an Evangelical, unlike myself, but we all walk in the footsteps of the Lord, as it were. Anyway, I just wanted to make that clear, Mallory, before you head back to London.” He gave a wintry, but apparently genuine, smile.

“Thank you, Lees-Hogg. Go with, er, God.” 

“You, too.” 

Once he had left, Mallory sank back into his chair. Q was staring at him open mouthed.

“I never knew you were a Christian, Sir.”

“I’m not.”

“But – “

“Well, when I say I’m not, I don’t mean that I’m a devotee of – of Odin or something. I do pop into a church from time to time for things like weddings and funerals, and Christmas, obviously. Tradition and all that. But I am hardly a regular churchgoer.”

“So why does he think you are, then?”

Mallory sighed and poured another cup of tea. “It’s a long story.”

**M’s Diary, November 6th (decoded)******

** **** **

** **** **

Gave Q as succinct a version of events as possible. Was in the States, DC, for some transatlantic function or other. Everyone was there, the PM, 45, a load of people from out of town - including rootin-tootin’ gun totin’ all-American soccer mom Lou Poling, from well north of the 64th parallel, former state governor and ex presidential candidate. I’d met her before at a White House dinner some months before and every time I glanced in her direction, there she was, staring right back with a come-hither look in her eye. Good-looking woman but constantly playing up her Godfearing marriage for the media, religious to a fault and frankly bonkers. There isn’t really a British equivalent although God knows we have some nutters here as well. I didn’t really understand why she was eyeing me up, given that she was part of the Moral Majority. She made a beeline for me in the hotel bar afterwards and we ended up talking about guns, which was fine (I know a lot about guns, so does she, actually) but I found it difficult to get away from her and her terrifying Jack Daniels intake and eventually I had to pretend I’d had an emergency text from the PM and shoot off, no pun intended. We flew out the next day. 

Anyway, on this next occasion, it was a huge state affair with a buffet and I’d nipped out to the gents’. I was just coming back into the cloakroom when suddenly there was Lou, all hairspray, teeth and cleavage. She grabbed me by the tie and kissed me like a hoover. Very tricky. I didn’t want to actually fight her off in case I hurt her, but I managed to clasp her by the arms and take a step or so backwards. Unfortunately I was so startled that I was a little slow in reacting, the male person is an unpredictable animal at the best of times and she had already noticed that there had been, let’s say, a degree of responsiveness. This slightly knocked any chance of gaining the moral high ground from under my feet.

“Madam! Mrs Poling, I’m dreadfully sorry but –“

“Aw, c’mon! You know you wanna!”

I thought it tactless to say that if I wanted hot sex, I could have it elsewhere. With someone not on the narcissistic spectrum.

“Mrs Poling,” I said desperately, “what about Rodd?”

“Who?”

“Your husband!” I’d been sure he was called Rodd, remembered it because of my brother. Had I got it wrong? Podd? Bodd? Godd? 

“Oh yeah. Him. Ol’ Rodd. What about him?”

“What about the precious sanctity of the home? Of your children.” Loads of them, too – she was another one, popping them out like peas. They all had outlandish names as well: Track, Snick, Rip… She ought to have married Lees-Hogg and then they could have named them things like Athelworth Tennis Court.

Who knew where I’d got a phrase like the ‘sanctity of the home’ from, too? Perhaps I’d started channeling Charles Dickens. But it did the trick.

“Jesus Christ, you’re not one of those eeevan-gelicals, are you?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Look, all that shit’s just for the benefit of our moronic voters, isn’t it?”

I saw my chance and snatched at it with both hands.

“Actually I take it very seriously, Mrs Poling.” Which was sort of not-lying. I do take religion seriously; it’s a serious business, after all.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! I thought you Limeys were stuffed shirts and now I’ve got proof!”

At this point I genuinely did utter a prayer of gratitude to whichever deity might be listening because a secret service man with a perfectly square head like a linebacker muscled his way through the coats and said, 

“Ma’am, ya need to come with me. Veep’s asking for ya.”

He hustled her out. As he went through the door, he turned and silently held out his hand, in which there was a tiny recording device.

I did not spend a comfortable night. If she got the hump and told people I’d come onto her – but there was apparently a tape. Who knew what the agent would do with it, though?

In the morning, I found out. There was a knock on the hotel room door and Mark Spence, the Veep himself, was standing in the hallway, silver haired, square jawed, hands in the pockets of his suit and bouncing aggressively on his toes.

“Sir Gareth, I gotta apologise on behalf of the Yoo Ess Ay, McLaren gave me the tape first thing this morning, told me what had happened, said he’d prayed on it all last night and I don’t blame him, one little bit. That woman’s like a bitch in heat, pardon my French. This isn’t the first time.”

“I was rather at a loss…”

“You don’t say! Women! This is why, right, I never allow myself to be alone with one of ‘em except Mrs Spence and then only with the lights on. It’s a liability these days - you never know what they’re gonna do, you never know what they’re gonna say and they’ve all got a hidden agenda from these feminazis all over the place. It’s a minefield and Satan is behind it, I’m telling you. But you’ll know all about the Devil’s work – you’re a follower of Our Lord. Anyway, I just wanna tell you how great it is, how truly great that in this wonderful Western society of ours, standing firm against the commies and the socialists and the liberals and the gays and the ecologists and the – the whales, is another Man of Gaad.”

“It, um, I, quite…”

“We are truly blessed! So I wanna invite you to my church, this Sunday. Come and see how we worship the Good Lord in true Yoonited States of America style!” The light of the fanatic glowed in the Veep’s pale blue eyes. 

I said, faintly, “Praise the Lord!”

“Hallelujah! I’ll send a car round tomorrow.” He wrung my hand and left.

I couldn’t refuse, so I went. Obviously it was ghastly. A massive McMegaChurch with a nylon-shirted pastor whose teeth, like Lou’s, could have been seen from space, who insisted that we all wave our arms. I have not seen a display of such vulgar emotion in my entire life but I had to pretend to join in because, actually, I was genuinely if reluctantly grateful to Spence for getting me out of a hole and he was in fact being as kind and hospitable as he knew how. Infuriating. 

Women go through this sort of thing all the time, I am given to understand. 

Still, there was an excellent choice of pie afterwards, which made up for a bit, if not all of it. 

So this is how I gained the reputation of a True Believer. 

When I’d finished relating all this to Q he said,

“But surely Lees-Hogg isn’t a real Christian, is he? How can he possibly say that he is? The words of Jesus are all about love and compassion but Lees-Hogg’s got about as much sympathy for the disadvantaged and the victims of austerity policies as a Victorian mill owner.”

“The lies one tells about oneself, Q. The lies one tells…”

**M’s Diary, later in November (decoded)******

** **** **

** **** **

Lees-Hogg rang me this morning and, in a déjà vu like moment, invited me to his church on Sunday so that we can ‘pray together’. Unlike the episode with Spence, this is at least likely to take place in a dignified old building. I am going to have to make up a story as to why I don’t seem to have a church of my own: I think I shall say that none of them have really appeared Christian enough and then not elaborate. Perhaps I can give him the impression that I’m on the verge of converting to Catholicism? Maybe over the issue of female clergy? This is deeply dishonest as I’m all for lady bishops – women are so much more sensible - but I’m sure God will understand. 

Anyway, this charade can’t go on. I’ll have to think of something. 

*

You have asked your boss, some days after the episode in Bath, how his weekend has gone. He replied, very gloomily, that he has spent much of it in church. You don’t quite understand why this should depress him as much as it seems to – surely being spiritual is a good thing? But your concern about him is ramped up to red alert levels later that day, when you take some papers to be signed into his office. M has nipped into the gents, but his laptop is open upon his desk and you can see the website that he has apparently been perusing.

It sports a link: “HOW TO JOIN THE TEMPLE OF SATAN.” 

END


End file.
